Puppy Dog Eyes and A Wad of Paper
by Giggles96
Summary: Inspired by Supernatural episode 09x05. Is it just Morgan or is Reid acting a little... strange? Personally, he blames that weird chemical gunk that blew up in his face earlier at that Mad Scientist's lab, but who knows? Crack-fic. One-shot. Not intended to be at all serious.


**Okay, so I know I really, really, _really _need to update my other stories. However, my laptop is so badly messed-up that it almost caught fire once when I turned it on. No joke. So... Yeah, not a good idea.**

**Sadly, because of this, I am unable to update and am suffering from some serious writers' withdrawal.**

**Therefore, I wrote this pretty stupid, short one-shot entirely on my kindle which was a pain-staking process, let me tell you. I am _so_ sorry to anyone waiting for another refill of A Little Problem or whatnot, but at this present moment in time, I can't make any promises and I couldn't guarantee much quality if written on a tablet of some sort (it would be poorly edited and most certainly rushed. I'm a terribly impatient person).**

**But I wrote this, if anyone's interested. I'm warning you now, it is... Oh God, it's bad.**

**Disclaimer: nope, these characters are not mine, thankfully. I would be the death of them.**

* * *

Crushing the paper in his hand with an absentminded fist, Morgan molds it into a vaguely round shape and tosses the ball of yawn-promoting prattle back and forth at a lazy, measured speed. Ignoring the disapproving sigh complete with that same old, almost-kinda-sort-of-but-not-really-amused huff for a laugh as Garcia pointedly glances his way and shakes her head.

He lifts one shoulder in a casual half-shrug, a silent challenge, and continues with his not-quite juggling.

See, this is exactly why Morgan prefers technology. What a waste of perfectly good ink! Least then, he could fool around, try and beat his latest high score on Candy Crush, and no-one would be none the wiser. Except, well, Hotch _had_ been wiser (C'mon, since when did _Morgan_ get so worked up by a debriefing report? Man, he _knew_ that fist bump in the air had over-done it). And, thus, here he is with his stingy printed file and honest-to-God, pink highlighters courtesy of one _hilarious_ Baby Girl, whilst everyone else gets stupid tablets.

In his defence, it has been a crazy long day, (some wacky, mad scientist wanna-be kidnapped a couple of men with the intention of using him for testing. It was weird and unusual and his lab was super creepy. There was also another close call with Reid when the insatiably curious idiot had to go snooping in explicitly forbidden areas and some disgusting, purple gunk blew up in his face. Afterwards, Pretty Boy insisted everything was fine and dandy, but - understandably - nobody believed him so Hotch ordered him to get checked out just in case. Sure, he was given the all-clear but the stress of the whole situation and the _waiting_ was enough to give anyone a friggin' heart attack) who can blame him for wanting to let off some steam?

Reid, obviously, who eyes the bouncing atrocity with curiosity alight in his eyes, (and, really, you'd think he'd learn) tracking every pass with a hard set in his jaw and an unreadable expression.

Hotch, too, as it turns out. All he has to do is _look_ at Morgan, but he gets the message. Loud and clear.

Cut it out or get out.

Exhaling as loudly and dramatically and long-sufferingly as he possibly can, just because, _boredom people, _Morgan lobs the chunk of junk at the trashcan with a brilliant, slap-on-the-back-worthy shot.

He grins and surveys the room, because how could anyone miss such a spectacle, seriously?

To his utter disappointment, Hotch has resumed talking and everyone is listening with such rapt attention, Morgan is convinced it's feigned. All except... Hang on a sec. Looks like things are about to get interesting.

Reid reaches back using those unnaturally long limbs of his, and without taking his eyes off of their leader once, rolls the crumpled up paper across the table and right into Morgan's lap.

Mouth falling open in surprise, Morgan fumbles for a reply as he blinks incredulously at his best friend.

Isn't he usually the one who sets those judgey, jugdey eyes on him and swears against any and all trouble-making except for sometimes when he wants to prove he can be fun, too? This isn't one of those days. Morgan hasn't even whipped out the old man jokes. Hasn't said a single thing about the sweaters. And yet here Spencer is, _encouraging_ him? There's no way.

Sensing the scrutiny, Reid turns to him and, brows twitching and furrowing in confusion, merely waits for Morgan to say something with those huge, doe eyes beaming with encased innocence, trained on his face.

_What the hell, dude? _he mouths.

Spencer cocks his head his head to the side.

The older profiler rolls his eyes and waves the paper around as if to say, _This! This is what I'm talking about!_

Pretty Boy just ducks his head, meeting his gaze with obliviousness practically sketched onto his features.

Aw, whatever. I can't be dealing with _this._

So Morgan gives up.

_Kid's too sweet and pure and crap. It's too darn endearing, _he thinks begrudgingly. _Must be a hidden super-power or something. Too bad all of his pranks suck. Reid's the only one with a chance of getting away scott-free..._

With that thought, Derek conveniently spies JJ's reluctant cautioning from the other end of the room as she subtly gestures towards Hotch who, although currently with his back to the team, is due to take a peek behind him any second now - admittedly having learnt it would be best not to leave the children minus continuous supervision for long after some less-than-stellar behaviour in the past that always seemed to have some sort of direct connection to the occasionally mischievous Morgan. Not that he was _always_ the culprit. 'Course not. He just gets blamed for everything. Easy target, that's it.

Anyhow, it's all about timing and their boss is nothing if not predictable. Which gives him about a minute, roughly, if he's lucky.

_Fifty-nine._

JJ points to the offending object in hand, and as someone who, surprisingly, has _not_ got a death wish, Morgan quickly flings it at the trash where it bounces off of the side and lands on the floor with a soft, unassuming thump.

JJ nods, appeased. Twisting around and refocusing.

_Fifty._

Morgan's relief, on the other hand, is short-lived.

Because what do you know, his number-one BFF distractedly grabs the little sucker and _wit__h his nose, _kindly pushes it over to Mr. Gritting. His. Teeth. With the spasming eye he probably should get checked out. Yeesh.

_Thirty-Seven._

Rossi, in no uncertain terms, makes a slashing gesture across his throat and chuckles lowly.

_Thirty._

Fed up with the innocent act, Derek hurls the wad of paper angrily at his accomplice's head. In response, Reid tilts his head further than ever before and instinctively returns the blasted thing with such an earnest expression that Morgan wants to slam his own head repeatedly against the desk.

_Twenty-One._

'Alright, Reid,' he whispers harshly. 'Here's what's going to happen.' Words slow and voice painfully clear, Morgan states, 'I am going to deposit this ball of paper in that trashcan, right over there. And you are. _Not. Going. To. **Touch.** It._ Get it?'

_Fifteen._

Eyes unfairly wide, Spencer nods the affirmative.

Carefully, oh so bleedin' carefully, the elder man launches the supposedly harmless missile and blows out a breath as it hits its target. _FINALLY._

_Twelve._

The strangest of looks crosses Reid's face and he squirmes restlessly in his chair.

_Ten._

Biting down hard on his lower lip, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. Rocking a little bit, also, maybe?

_Eight._

Morgan narrows his eyes as he observes their youngest swallow with visible difficulty, tensing, features pinched...

_Six._

Nope, it isn't his imagination. Pretty Boy's breathing definitely is getting shallower.

_Four._

Oh, for heavan's sake-

_Two. _

A familiar bundle of happiness comes idly rolling his way.

_..._

Hotch's voice. Calm, but sharp. 'Morgan!'

He deflates.

* * *

The muffled laughter of his fellow teammates does not help his case.

Reid, with his shoulders slumped, appears suitably guilty, but if possible, it only serves to make Morgan feel worse.

'Morgan, how many times must I tell you not to fool around during debriefings?' Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose and gazes at him steadily and, really, what the hell does he say to that?

'But, but-' he splutters, arguing haltingly. 'I-I didn't-I wasn't-'

'Oh, give it up, Hot Stuff,' Garcia laughs. 'We all seen ya.'

'What?!' Morgan cries. 'I was only trying to get rid of it!'

'Suuuurre, you were,' Rossi drawls, enjoying this far too much for his liking. Well, payback's a bitc-

'Honestly, Morgan,' JJ huffs. 'I tried to tell you-'

'But I'm telling the truth! _I'm _the victim here-'

'Yeah. Right.' Really, Emily? A snort? That hurts.

'Everyone just calm down-'

'Pleading is not gonna get you anywhere, son, just give it a rest already-'

'It was me!' A new voice suddenly interjects, silencing the inane chatter. Softer, now. That he has their attention. 'I'm the one at fault here, not Morgan.'

'Reid,' Hotch says patiently, the hard lines in his face softening. For real. 'You don't have to take the blame here-'

'I'm not! It really is my fault.'

'Yeah,' Morgan chimes in. 'I mean, not to dump the kid into it or anything, but did nobody else seriously see?'

'See _what?'_ They all demand at once.

Morgan sighs.

'This,' he answers mysteriously. The rest exchange looks of bewilderment.

Then, like before, Derek throws the piece of paper that's caused so much trouble, sending it hurtling through the air, before shifting his gaze solidly to Reid.

Whose eyes, predictably, dart towards the ground.

With every pair of eyes in the room locked on him, and all-too-aware of it, Spencer screws up his face in distress. Struggling not to take action, his focus jumps from the source of his discomfort to Morgan and back, and everyone else's breath hitches in sympathy because, dear Lord, _THOSE **EYES.** _They each feel bad and a little odd for thinking it, but man, is Spencer adorable when he looks like that. No wonder they tend to baby him from time to time.

Reid pales, tugging desperately on the collar of his shirt.

Morgan feels awful for doing it, but he _has_ to see whether or not his theory is correct.

Deep breath. Here goes.

'Go on, boy,' he croons, leaving the rest of his team questioning his sanity. Reid, of course, only appears much more conflicted, inching forward. Derek smiles encouragingly, forcing his voice upwards in pitch, injecting false cheerfulness he doesn't feel as he lilts, 'Good boy. Go get it. Go on.'

Now he's having flashbacks of sunny days in the park with Clooney. His gut twists.

All the same, Spencer responds.

A positively heart-wrenching, canine-like whine tearing from his throat.

* * *

For a split-second, no-one reacts.

Then it's voices all at once.

Meanwhile... unbeknownst to them, Reid retrieves.

He stands in front of Morgan where he releases the slobbery makeshift toy from his grip between his jaw and drops it with a piercing squelch at his feet. Smoothening out the worry in his expression, Derek plasters on an enthusiastic grin and coos reassuringly, 'That's a good boy,' reaching out and tentatively touching his soft tufts of hair and gently petting his head.

A stunned hush falls over the other occupants of the room.

Er, yeah, so... Not at all awkward. Reid relaxes, though, so that's a plus. He nuzzles closer, letting a content whimper slip, and Morgan swears he hears a few gooey, heartfelt, _awwws,_ chorus from the girls. Spencer's cheeks warm slightly, but it's clear he can't help any of it, which explains why he doesn't protest to the regretfully demeaning treatment.

Hotch is the first to pull himself together enough to clear his throat and question as authoritatively as he can under the circumstances, 'Alright, Morgan, what's going on?'

He grimaces - pausing in his movements only to feel a tongue flick out against his palm as he lowers it (Which, _duh._ Clooney is the same in his attempts at affection. If it's within reach, it's fair game). Resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans, because that's mean and this is his best friend and he's trying to be sensitive, Morgan scratches under Pretty Boy's chin and answers vaguely, 'Um, well, I sort of guessed something was up and this pretty much confirmed it.'

His boss seems hesitant to ask, but regardless, presses, 'Confirmed.. what?'

'That, uh-' He rubs the back of his neck with his spare hand. 'That Reid was just playing fetch.'

* * *

**Thank-you everyone for reading. Hope you enjoyed it, strange as it was. I** **apologise if any language used offended anyone. **


End file.
